


Changed

by EwanMcGregorIsMyHomeboy12



Category: Catalyst: A Rogue One Novel - James Luceno, Rogue One: A Star Wars Story (2016), Star Wars - All Media Types
Genre: Bisexual Male Character, Desertion-AU, Healing, Injured Orson Krennic, Krennic comes back to Galen, M/M, Sexual Content
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-29
Updated: 2017-05-30
Packaged: 2018-09-20 15:01:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 8,280
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9497222
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EwanMcGregorIsMyHomeboy12/pseuds/EwanMcGregorIsMyHomeboy12
Summary: In which Orson Krennic deserts the Empire and goes to the only man who has ever offered him a home.In which Galen Erso sees a subtle change in his oldest friend who crashes back into his life, injured and alone.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hey, y'all! Hope you enjoy! One-shot for now, not sure what inspired!

Galen thinks Orson Krennic might have softened in all of their years spent apart. Not physically, his body is thin and pulled in the same hard lines it always had been, with more taut muscle than he had, even in their youth. No, physically he is much the same.

But his mind is changed from then. When the Starfighter had crash landed outside of his and Jyn's home on Lah'mu, he had expected that the empire had finally found them. That he would be torn form his daughter and returned to fight in a war that had taken his wife, for a project he had never wanted to see started. He had sent her to their hiding place, armed himself, preparing to die if that was what it came to.

But the billows of smoke had changed his line of thought. The fighter that lay in burning pieces in the middle of their grain plot would never be able to take them away. So instead he had gone to it, and pulled a broken man from the wreckage.

Broken in spirit, his body damaged from what looked like Imperial blasters, his clothes torn, his clothes bloodied. He had clung to Galen, barely opening his eyes as he pulled him from the cockpit and carried him to the house, laying him on the free sleep couch as he faded into unconsciousness.

After that moment, when Orson had woken up to Jyn pulling a blanket over him so that it would cover the feet she had peeled his muddied boots off of, he had seen the change. He had no reaction other than an impassive look at her, and a glance around at Galen, who was brewing coiling water to treat his wounds in the small kitchen. His eyes had hunted for signs of Lyra, not knowing she had died the year before in the fever that had spread over Lah'mu, taking so many lives.

His eyes had fallen with genuine sympathy when Galen explained that, he had hissed with genuine pain when he pulled his shirt off to reveal a kaleidoscope of bruises and cuts and blasters wounds across his torso, he had sighed in genuine relief at the bacta-diluted water Galen poured on the wounds. It was the first time in a long time that Galen could recall seeing real emotion on his face in years. Not the fake smiles and plastered curiosity he maintained to amuse others. Orson Krennic had changed, and that was the day he had realized it.

He also didn't press Galen. He seemed to have no doubt Galen would allow him to stay, but never pressed him for more. He cooked. He worked the plants. He allowed Galen his time with Jyn. After two days of lying on the couch, he was finally able to stand easily, to wash himself and his clothes in their small washroom so he might look presentable. He had told Galen of his desertion in a quiet voice after Jyn had gone to sleep, clinging to the Stormtrooper doll Orson had given Galen when she was born. In all the time Galen had known him, Orson Krennic had pushed for what he wanted. But Galen was almost certain that for the first time in Orson Krennic's life, he wasn't sure what that might be.

He had begun to notice his former friend standing closer to him. Pressing his hand to his arm as he could help him with things. Watched as he genuinely tried to connect with the small girl that Galen loved more than anything in the galaxy even though he knew he had never been good with children. And as Orson's body seemed to heal, the softness that Galen had never noticed seemed to become more pronounced.

And now, hear they were, with Jyn sleeping on the other side of the dwelling, and Orson straddling Galen's legs as he pressed them down into the bed. His lips were as soft as his voice, moving over Galen's jaw and neck and chest that he bared with steady fingers, igniting fires in Galen that he hadn't realized still burned. "I've missed you." Orson had said, trailing thick fingers over Gale's jaw before kissing him again, pressing his tongue between Galen's lips.

This was easy. It was almost too easy to love Orson like this, with his fingers peeling off the white uniform he had never stopped wearing, and those same fingers tracing the scars of recent wounds he had healed himself in the home that he had with his family. It was different with Lyra, whom he had loved and started his family with. Orson had always been different, an anomaly with whom Galen had never quite been able to find balance.

That didn't stop him from moaning into Orson's heated skin as his hands moved under his waistband. Or from gasping as Orson's mouth slid over him after he pulled the last of their clothes off. "I've missed this." Orson had moaned, his hands soft as he clung tight to Galen's back as Galen moved inside of him. I'm sorry…" But the words had dissolved as Galen shushed him and they instead turned into breathless gasps. He buried his ace in Orson's shoulder, tasting the slight sheen of sweat that had formed on his skin, listening to his oldest friend, his first lover, gasp underneath him as mutual pleasure cast both of them into oblivion.

Galen thinks that Orson Krennic has certainly softened, his sweat slicked hair pressed to his forehead as he curled at Galen's side, their bodies spent. "Welcome home." Galen says, knowing it has nothing to do with sex or anything else about that night other than allowing Orson back into his life. He says nothing else, pressing a kiss to the top of Orson's head through his hair, and holding him close as he fades into sleep.

And his life becomes a whirlwind of Orson Krennic again, raising his daughter and the crops and making love with passion that hasn't been woken in him since before the fever took Lyra. But he stays soft, his eyes glow with laughter as he tries to talk to Jyn more and more, his hands callous but still carve gently paths along Galen's skin rather than curve around the trigger of a blaster.

Maybe it's that softness that blinds him. That blinds them both. Because he doesn't even worry when he hears the ship outside, when Jyn knows to run and hide but he doesn't even take the blaster. He looks at Orson as the Imperial cruiser lands and the troopers start to file across the dirt permanently scorched by the fighter ages before, and realizes that the softness he sees in his lover's face is not held by the rest of the galaxy. He takes his hand in his own and waits on the reality that has come for them both, memories of a small girl with dark hair and a now gentle man pressing a kiss to his lips all that he lets himself think about.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The part two I felt like writing. Thank you all for the overwhelming response on part 1 :) I hope you enjoy this as well.

"Your progress is stalled." He could hear the grit in Tarkin's voice, a normally smooth baritone that was now overlayed with a narrow bit of contempt. The Governor's features were drawn to his high-risen cheekbones. "We had an agreement, Dr. Erso."

"I cannot finish the work ahead of schedule." He said softly, "There is a reason for the schedule."

"Yes, I know. You are behind schedule." Tarkin replied, tapping his fingers on the table. "Let me remind you, Dr. Erso, of the gravity of the situation."

"I do not need your reminders, Governor." He answered again, trying to square his chin in defiance. He was not afraid for himself, he had never been afraid for himself. Only for his Jyn, his Stardust; and Orson who would suffer the brunt of this failure. "Your actions are proof enough."

"You don't seem convinced." Tarkin snarled at him, and Galen had the distinct impression that at the first opportunity, the man across from him would kill him and watch the spectacle with the same amusement that one might watch their favorite holovid. But as for now, Tarkin needed him, and was trying to reign in control that he knew Galen was denying him. "Perhaps a bit less time with your family would engage you more with your work."

"We had an agreement, Tarkin." Instead of fear, he could hear the anger in his voice. The steel that hardened his words to the point that Tarkin's face twitched in repressed rage.

"Which you have broken." The Governor stood, spinning on his heel. "Let me remind you that a kill order was issued for Orson Krennic and he was only spared at my request on your behalf." He turned again, leaning on the table. "And let me also remind you," his voice had dropped to a dangerous whisper, "He has only been released to your care on my orders. I can easily send him back to his holding cell."

Galen knew that now the fear had to be written across his features, because Tarkin smirked at him. "See that this latest shipment of kyber is processed on time, or the consequences will be very real, I assure you." And with his usual, self-important strut, he left the room and Galen along with it to deal with the very real problem of a timeline he could not fix.

That evening, when he was at the table, his notes in front of him, still working furiously, even Orson's touch had not tempted him to go to bed. "Jyn is in bed, Galen." He had said, looping arms around his neck and pressing a kiss to the top of Galen's head. "It's been hours, come to bed. Sleep, you'll work better that way."

He only shook his head, trying to ignore the very inviting warmth of his lover back to their bedroom, where he could revel in the security of the only place on Eadu that he felt safe. But he had to press on, the numbers had to come faster and faster, or Tarkin would never rest easy. But he knew, even now, with his head starting to hurt from looking at so many numbers, that Orson was right.

"The work will be there tomorrow." The slightly accented lilt hit his ears, and was enough temptation to make him sigh and take his glasses off, setting them down on the table as he rubbed his hands over his face.

"There is too much at stake." Galen whispered back through his own hands.

"You don't support the construction, Galen. Why work harder than you have to?" Orson had always been good at getting exactly what he wanted, and now he wanted Galen to come to bed. He was the only person Galen had known, with the exception of his late wife, that had ever bothered to try and persuade what on the outset seemed a very stubborn man. Orson's hands, with their long, wide fingers, pushed his hair back off of his forehead, his lips grazed his ear lightly, where he could speak into Galen's ear. "Come to bed."

"I am not worried about the project." But he stood anyway, knowing this was an argument he would lose. He turned, enveloping Orson in an embrace, pressing his face into his neck, an odd angle for the taller man, but more than worth it.

"We're fine, Galen." Orson said quietly, running a soothing hand over his back. "We're safe here." But it wasn't true. Not that Orson would know he was lying this time, not that he would know what Galen knew Tarkin was capable of doing to him again.

He kept his nose to Orson's skin, breathing deeply the scent of the rich cologne that he wore, the heavy soap that smelled like mint and something clinical. His hands moved to undo Orson's shirt, peeling the heavy cloth off of him, so coarse and unrefined compared to the almost silky cloth he had worn while still a lieutenant commander of the Empire himself. But those days were long gone, and Galen needed that reminder.

He pulled back, tugging the cloth over Orson's head so that his skin was exposed in the pale fluorescence of the dining room. "I wanted you to come to bed, Galen, we don't have to do this." His tne was playful, but Galen was anything but at the moment.

His fingers reached up to trace scars, both thick and thin and bone-white that ran across the freckled areas of his chest. Knife wounds, electro-stabbers, burns on the soft skin over his ribs and by his joints. He could feel them under his thumb, the texture so different from the smooth skin that surrounded them. He pulled him back close, wanting him close, but needed to feel the long, parallel lines that cut down his back. He wanted to erase them, the memory of them, but he would have to settle for tracing them with his fingers.

"Are you alright, Galen?" Orson asks, his voice hoarse with lust, but also tinged with worry. Galen wants to say yes. He wants to say that the torture and interrogation and demeaning tactics that branded these marks into Krennic's skin to begin with will never happen again. He wants to say he can easily forget about the days spent in horror, covering Jyn's eyes as they tortured Orson in front of them both, trying to make his work move faster, go smoother. He wants to forget the nights he would come back to the room he shared with his daughter and they had left Orson's body for him to find, damaged and badly beaten, with only a few vials of bacta to help him recover. He wants to say those things no longer matter because they will never happen again. But he can't do that, he has never been able to lie. Not to Orson.

"Yes," he says, and only because it is true. He is not the one who will be punished if his work goes wrong. He is more than alright. His mind keeps him safe. It puts Orson, Jyn, any others he might have once called friends, in terrible danger. But he is alright. "Let's go to our room."

And he knows they could come and take Orson any day. Return him to the cells that had almost broken him and use him as a lifeless puppet to control Galen's actions. This he knows, so he plans to make the most of their time while he can still hold himself together. He pulls Orson into their room, and as soon as the door shuts, presses him back against the cold durasteel to kiss him harder than he has in months, hearing the hiss escape Orson's lips at the touch of cold, but nothing worse.

He peels the layers off of his lover one by one, kissing over his entire body as his mind ignites with the defiant fire of a desperate man. He slides his mouth over him, swallows him and the "I love you's" and the whispers of his name whole to try and soothe that same burning. He lets Orson undress him, unknowing the of the fate that most likely awaits him, lets hands that are too gentle caress his skin until he is pulled into a familiar oblivion inside of Orson's body, longing for a release that will alleviate some of the pain he is feeling.

"I love you." He heard Orson say softly, when they are curled up together, Orson's face pressed against his chest, the rest of his draped and intertwined over him like a blanket. He lets his own breathing calm down, presses a kiss to Orson's fingers that he lifts to his mouth, and whispers the same words in return as the man falls asleep.

It is only then that the high fades from him, and Tarkin's words settled like toxin in his brain and he lets a tear run down his face in the quiet darkness as he takes a moment to entwine Orson's fingers with his own.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What's this? Part 3? Damn. Sorry, y'all, for any feelings this may invoke. Poor Galen :( Please R and R, your reviews give me life

His door opened, his eyes immediately going to the small shape that rested in the chair. Jyn looked back at him, dressed in the full black of Imperial children, an insignia that matched his own on her arm. The anger that he kept buried deep under his skin started to light, but he tamped it down. She was afraid, and he could not afford to show anger. Not to her.

He stepped inside, letting the door slide shut behind him. Something was amiss, the precision that Orson kept their quarters was slightly askew, unnoticed except to his eyes that had always managed to scan for the minuscule changes in detail that others would certainly overlook. Even though his eyes were tired, pages and pages, hundreds of sheets of calculations and plans and numbers that made him wish he could sleep more than anything, he could spot the minute changes in the room. The rug, rumpled at the corner, the shoes missing from beyond the door, one of the cups missing from the rack. And Jyn, looking at him as though she might start crying if Galen knew she wasn't so determined not to.

"What is it, Stardust?" He said quietly, but he knew that answer. The lie that he had been living was crumbling down at this exact moment, and the proof was in the lack of arrival of Orson from their room, or their kitchen where he would be preparing them some sort of meal as a way to occupy his always busy mind since he was never allowed to the leave their quarters unescorted. He would have come out, with the same smirk he had always had and his blue eyes flashing with only excitement that Galen had come home for the evening despite the fact that for over a year they had been living under the constant fear of being separated, berated, or killed. But he had never faltered.

For a moment, Galen let himself listen in the vague hope that the shower might be on and Orson had simply misjudged his arrival. But Orson had never made that mistake. As long as Galen had known him, he never made a mistake, even minor. Except one.

And that was the one that now felled Galen to his knees, under the pretense to his daughter and to himself, that he was there for her to hug. "Is Orson coming back?" Her voice always surprised him with how strong it is, power from a tiny body that felt so fragile in his arms.

"I hope so, Stardust." He hears himself say, with only a twinge of guilt for not reassuring her, but also knowing better than to lie. She pulled back from his embrace, and her brown eyes, so like Lyra's, looked into his.

"I'm sorry, Papa." She says, and Galen can see in her eyes that she remembers the last time Orson was gone. The blood, the pain, the unconscious screaming. The nights that she would come into the living room, thinking Galen couldn't see her standing in the shadow of her doorway, and would watch as Galen worked over Orson's abused body, trying his best to mend wounds and scars even as his hands would shake and the blood would seep into his clothes until he was so tired that his vision would blur and he would fall asleep sitting on the couch, with Orson covered by their only blanket in the chair, covered in marks that were never given enough time to heal.

Galen says nothing, only moves one hand to brush loose strands of brown hair off of her forehead before he stands and goes to make them dinner. Neither are much of a mood to eat, and their food remains largely untouched on the table between them. Galen is itching to move, to do something other than the nothing that he seems to have resigned himself to. The failure, the agony of simply waiting on Tarkin or some other officer hell-bent on destroying his life that would bring news he had no need to be informed of and take him to see a man on a strict visitation schedule that he would find himself craving and hating at the same time. That moment was coming, but there was part of him that needed to make the first move, to take some semblance of control before the world threatened to undo him.

After what seemed like an immeasurable time later, Jyn left him to his own devices in the living room, his typical reading or puzzles or extra works that he has brought back. But now, it has consisted of him sitting in silence, running his long fingers through his rapidly graying hair as his body burns to move down the hall but his daughter keep shim firmly in place. He will not lose her too, and leaving her alone in this space has left his life as a viable option.

And so he waits in his own kind of agony until not only has she gone to bed, but he can hear her quiet sounds of sleep when he stands in the doorway before he leaves the room behind, locking it behind him as if that would keep them from her. He steps quickly through the station, ignoring the stares of those who are fully aware of his current state, and who he knows mock him behind his back in the rooms thick with officers and Stormtroopers. They finally believe that his design for the battle station will work, but the hint of a reputation of insanity has left him or Orson, and he finds it heavy in their words and actions when they refuse to step out of his way and he pushes through them.

The prison block is not well-guarded. The prisoners are subdued to the point that they wouldn't be able to run away before they were pumped full of blaster wounds and whatever had compelled them to try and escape the empire would seem very unimportant indeed. He was not stopped, the guard giving him an almost smirk as he pressed in the code to the holding cells, an array of unconscious or entirely uninterested prisoners looking his way as he walked by, his Imperial boots clacking unnaturally loud on the floor in the stiff silence perpetuated by only dull thuds or muffled screams.

He is in the same cell as before, and though his face is turned away from Galen as his body is spread awkwardly on the metal bench, he can see the red starting to spot at the pale white clothes that they've forced him into. He presses a hand to the flexi-glass of the door, knowing it will leave fingerprints that they will know who they belong to, and he has to do something with it to keep himself from smashing the code box that keeps the door closed into a thousand splintered pieces and he no longer feels like the air is being pulled forcibly from his lungs.

"You were aware, Dr. Erso, of the consequences of delay." He can feel the coldness that surrounds Wilhuff Tarkin before his refined voice gets to his eardrums. He doesn't move, continues to watch Orson whose slow breaths are barely evident through the glass. "The Empire demands progress."

He wants a response, a shout of anger, and Galen has no doubt that he has a blaster set to stun ready to fire on him if he moves. But he doesn't. Years of repressing any semblance of strong emotion kept him at bay, though the hand that rests at his side curls into a fist.

"Escort Dr. Erso back to his quarters." He feels rough hands of Deathtroopers push at his shoulders, but his he keeps his eyes on Orson's form to the last. He lets them push him, intentionally dragging his steps as the haunted gazes of other political prisoners too important to execute follow his motions through their windows. "Remove Prisoner 3177 from his cell and bring him to mine." He hears Tarkin order another pair of soldiers behind him. He hears a low groan of pain, a thud of a fist on exposed flesh and his eyes burn even as they push him away.

Two days later and he opens the door to again find Jyn, his daughter, his Stardust, but she is not alone. She is holding a towel in her fist, damp with water and now tinted crimson as she holds it to Orson's nose like she has seen Galen do so many times. He freezes, his heart aches as her eyes look up at him. "I'm sorry, Papa." And he wants to say it back to her, to admit everything his has ever done wrong that has landed them here, every failing in his life, in his project, in his heart, but he can't stand to have her hate him. Not like Orson surely has to hate him now, if only he knew what Galen had done.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have been overwhelmed with the response to this story, y'all! I hope you all enjoy this chapter! Please R and R, let me know what you think! :)

The water was like ice, his fingers numb as he moved them through it, the chill moving from there to his torso that shivered with each passing moment it was exposed. He breathed in deeply, pressing a cold hand to Orson’s forehead, which seemed to burn even hotter now it what he hoped was a simple contrast to the cold. He had been conscious when Galen had returned, but delirious with fever that stemmed from an infected incision expertly cut along his abdomen.

Galen had nearly panicked at the sight of him, sweating and talking feverishly to no one where he had fallen off of the couch, unable to stand. Galen had pulled his shirt off of him, watching as it stuck to skin with sweat and blood, his body temperature dangerously high. He had run the bath, doing his best to ignore Orson’s shout of pain and shock as the cold water hit his bare skin.

He had propped him up there, where he wouldn’t slide into the cold bath, and then had gone to check on Jyn. She had been huddled, playing with what she had named Stormy, who was now the equivalent of threadbare plastic. She had been crying, but when Galen came to her, she had stopped, whispering instead things to the doll so that Galen might not here them, but they could still be understood.

“I’m going to help Orson, Stardust.” She had nodded, and he had left, finding Krennic trying to climb out of the tub, his fingers having have pulled himself upward, tearing open the finally closing gash on his stomach, blood leaking out into the water around him.

He had tugged off his own shirt then, tossing it aside to the sink before moving back to the tube. “You have to sit still, Orson.” He tried to keep his voice level, to not betray the very real panic in his chest. “You could hurt yourself.” Blue eyes had opened halfway, looking at him with an unfocused, diminished sort of stare, glazed with pain and delirium to the point that Galen knew he was processing nothing of the scene before him except that Galen was there.

He tried to speak, his voice weak and jumbled with nonsensical words that Galen didn’t waste time trying to figure out. He began cupping the water, letting handfuls of it run down, Orson’s torso, swirling the blood to the point that it was diluted and he could pretend it wasn’t a problem. Another set of handfuls went over Orson’s head, most of it sliding off the sweat-slicked curls but some running over his burning forehead.

Galen worked quickly but softly, letting the water run easy around, ignoring the cold that now seemed etched into his soul until he could feel the fever regressing and Orson fading into an uneasy sleep. He had simply sat there, placed his forehead on the edge of the ceramic bathtub, and let his shoulders shake in sobs that brought no tears, but exposed all of the fear, all of the pain, all of the indemnity of the last hours. He wanted to stop, wanted to shake himself back to reality, at least for Jyn’s sake since he could almost guarantee that she was still awake, but he couldn’t manage it for longer than was right.

When he did finally, he let the water swirl down the drain, tinged pink with blood, but far less threatening. With Orson still in the tub, he wiped down the cut with disinfectant, watching the main twitch in his sleep, his lips curling in pain as the liquid seeped in before the relief of bacta came over his skin.

He pulled him from the tub, his body pouring water onto the floor between them, soaking through Galen’s pants. He held him up like that, in an embrace meant to stabilize him fully, Orson’s body almost entirely dead weight. He was groaning in his barely sleeping state, the fever still not broken, but safe now where Galen could get him to bed.

It was not easy, pulling soft, dry clothes on him, especially when he had to peel off his own pants and dress him as best he could with numb fingers and chilled limbs. But mange he did, working him into a pair of pajama trousers and a bathrobe before pulling the comforter over him, hoping that the heat might break the fever.

Only then did he redress himself, give his body and hair and face a quick scrub before pulling on his own version of sleepclothes, going to Jyn’s room to find she had tucked herself in with Stormy, the gift from Orson himself so long ago, wrapped in her arm.

But then, sleep did not come. He sat on the edge of his and Orson’s bed, watching the sweat pour over the other man’s face until the cleaner finished its work and the fever broke in the early hours of the morning. The fatigue and chill of his limbs meant little to him, because this time when they came to take him, he was there for them. Death troopers, their armor loud and imposing, came in as they always did, handcuffs out, blasters an arm’s length away from their fingertips. Up until this moment, he had always watched helpless, his heart in his throat as they would take Orson away, either barely waking or still in recovery. Now he did not. He stood when they entered the apartment, and remained that way as they came into his bedroom.

They stopped, looking around him at Orson, who was still wrapped in their comforter, groaning softly with almost every exhale. “Step aside.” He was ordered, but did not move. He waited, watching, even though he couldn’t see their eyes, at the uncertainty that they shared between them. “We have orders to return him to the prison block.”

“I know.” Galen said, his voice level. He was no longer anger. There was no fear that pricked at his words or at his thoughts. No panic over what they might do as a result. Only resilience. “You are not taking him.”

“Step aside.” The command came again, this time with the addition of a gun barrel pointed directly at his chest.

“I doubt Governor Tarkin would appreciate my death.” He said, not a threat, but a manipulation even Orson might be proud of. “I am essential to his project.”

“We’ve been given orders.” One of them said, now both barrels pointing at him. “Step aside and away from the prisoner.”

But Galen stood, the air heavy with both indignation and a slight prickle of fear. Not from him, from them. Do the wrong thing, and they would be killed on sight. But what thing was wrong in this situation? Leaving Krennic? Killing Erso? Galen waited. And waited. And waited.

He let out a long breath, listening to Orson’s voice in his sleep, finding it amazing how fickle of a friend that fate had been for them. Bringing them together. Tearing them apart. Giving him a family. Allowing him to share it. Tearing Orson away again.

“Step aside.” And he closed his eyes as he heard the step of an armored plated boot on the floor, moving ever-so-closer to him.


	5. Chapter 5

The room was hot, so hot in fact that his clothes were sticking to his skin and his hair was plastered to his forehead. Still, he worked faster, his hand moving faster, as his mind blazed forward. Calculations. Numbers. Figures. Facts. All were a blur, tinted orange by the strange light of the room that had placed him in. He tried his best to stay focused, knowing that the faster he was done, the sooner they might stop the source of the muffled thumps coming through the wall beside him. Solid thumps, almost piercing shouts that were intentionally cut short.

He could not focus on that. As it was, his mind would become unraveled, and his hands would shake so badly that he would simply stare at the page and try to scrawl in some indiscernible pattern that would never meet the standards of Wilhuff Tarkin. Then the screams were no longer muffled, and the tremors were even more violent. He could not look, though in reality there was nothing stopping him but a thin sheet of plexiglass. Plexiglass that always started clear but often ended with a spatter of crimson, or the contents of a stomach left to dry heave after they were expelled. He could look, but then it would go even longer and that thought was unbearable.

Or perhaps most unbearable had been the first time, when he had sat and attempted to pull himself into quiet reclusion. When he had first heard them come in, the muffled spark from the electric pulse devices in their hands, the ones that had caused the first shout of pain on the other side. The ones that now marked the beginning of his workday. He could smell the cologne Tarkin had been wearing that first time, his narrow face peering down at him from in front of the desk.

“It is appropriate, Dr. Erso, that the two of you might share a cell on this battle station. It was Krennic, after all, that suggested the installation of the prison to begin with.” Galen had known better than to say anything, simply continued his work, sending out commands through his data-pad to his team of engineers.

Tarkin had not been happy with his response, and Galen could almost feel the desire coming from him to reach out and hit Galen across the same mark the Death Troopers had hit into his face when they had decided he was worthy of being kept alive, but not so important that he should be undamaged. He knew Orson fit neither of those categories, and had swallowed the prickle of fear that ran down him.

“Your daughter is quite the student I hear.” Tarkin had said again, turning to leave, “Perhaps it runs in the family.” He had kept his head down, looking only at the figures that kept his day elongated as it was, and Orson being beaten into undeserved torment in their adjoining room.

He could feel the anger swell up again, remnants from that day. The threat Tarkin had placed on Jyn, on his Stardust. He could feel his fingers start to tremble, the almost unbearable heat slickening his fingers until he dropped the pen and cursed to himself.

The door opened near instantaneously after he was done, and he could smell the same cologne, tempered with sweat as even Tarkin was occasionally not immune to being human. The room next ot him fell silent. “Look at him.” It was not spoken like a command, but the threat of retribution lingered on Tarkin’s words like a persistent sickness. Galen looked over, Orson’s body pulled back, his clothes in tatters, held tight to a guard whose hand was closed over his mouth, blood from Orson’s nose spilling between his fingers. “What do you see, Dr. Erso?”

“Is there something I am supposed to see?” His voice was cold, and he could feel the fear that this might be the beating Orson never woke up from, that all of this might have been for nothing, and that Tarkin would order that guard to snap his neck without a second thought.

“I would think it would be obvious.” Tarkin practically snarled. Galen kept staring, willing Orson’s eyes to open and look at him, just for a moment. To give him some indication of hope or anything, truly, that might make this better. But they remained closed tight to the world, and though it pained him, he thought that perhaps he might be better off for it. “This project is due to be completed very soon.”

“Yes.” Galen said, knowing that each sheet of calculations and each order he sent to his troops drew the empire ever closer to being a destroyer of worlds. Darkness was coming, and at the moment, it seemed inevitable.

“I would hope you realize that after its completion, the project will require your presence as well.” Tarkin said smoothly. Galen could feel the sweat trickle down his neck again. “I am here to offer you something that may inspire your work.”

“I am working at full capacity.” Galen protested, but even to him the words felt hollow. He was working as fast as he could, his engineers run ragged and on the Empire’s payroll. In this room he was now trapped in, in this cell, with his lover, his best friend, half of the pair of people he owed his world to, trapped inches away from him, eking out life on stone floors.

“I know.” Tarkin said, and though Galen did not look, he could detect a smirk. It was rare he got to look at Orson, and even though the shine off the blood made his stomach curl on itself, and the bruises visible under the remains of the clothes bloomed like desert flowers, he continued to look, drinking in the sight of him. “I am here to ensure there are no problems with the design.”

“There are not.” Galen said, keeping his face as stony as he had learned to do to endure this. Of course there were flaws. One minute flaw to be exact. That he had enacted swiftly and without contrition before he had made his act of defiance. A hole, one that would allow infiltration of the battle station and its destruction. It was there, but this conversation proved Tarkin unaware of it. He wasn’t surprised. A man capable of such cruelty had no room in his brain for schematics or science.

“If the station proves fully operational at its test on Jedha, you and your family will be regaled as heroes of the Empire. You will be moved back into your old quarters, with your old amenities, provided that you remain stationed here.” The picture was almost perfect. A sketch perhaps, without paint to bring life to the lines. But Galen could see through it, through Tarkin’s pretty words. To keep them here was to keep them eternal prisoners. They could laugh and live and love under the constant press of Tarkin’s thumb over them, the threat that pressing a toe out of line would have them back in this same state, watching Orson’s torture while his daughter fought for herself beyond his sight. But, if his plan succeeded, and the Death Star fell to the Rebels, then they would die here regardless. Better to have a final chance to laugh and make love and be together than to die a prisoner in a forgotten cell block.

“It will be.” Galen said, and sent up a silent prayer to the force that it protect the innocent people whose lives he would destroy on Jedha. But he could fight no more, and was powerless to end this except through his own deliration of wit. Tarkin said nothing for a long moment, before moving to leave again.

“I will leave you to it then, the Emperor looks forward to your progress.” And as his pencil went back to his hand, the heat rising again in the room with Tarkin’s exit, he heard the hollow sound of a fist on flesh, and from the periphery saw a splash of red stain into the plexiglass until he swore he could smell the stench of blood leaking through the barrier.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> So, I know what you might be thinking: what the hell am I doing? Truthfully, I was never satisfied with my own ending. I needed closure, and now I have it. I apologize in advance for any feelings this may invoke.

“Where is she, Galen?” He looks down to see Orson staring at him, his eyes open wide as they had been as of late. Ever since he had gotten him back. “Where did they take her?”

He was pressed to Galen’s side, seeking the comfort that might be there, but truly unable to offer much himself. He was healing. Slowly. Too slowly for it to truly matter.

“Jyn is not here, love. I sent her away.” He ran a hand along the man’s side, trying his best to be comforting. Protection he could do. Conversation he could manage. But this: using touch to try and make another feel safe. This wasn’t something he knew. But he could try, and for Orson’s sake, he would. “She is safe.”

“Oh.” Orson said, and Galen felt him press his chin against his collarbone. Brushing his face against Galen’s shoulder pad, scraping gently at what might have been an imaginary itch, stemming from an old scar cut along his cheek. He didn’t speak for a long moment, and Galen simply held him tighter.

He knew he should be living in constant fear. In the old anxieties that had once threated to overrun him in a horrible tide of fear and self-loathing that now seemed very silent in his mind. The plans, the failings of the station would soon be in his daughter’s hands. Or, at least, she could be safe now, away from here where she could live a life and leave this, leave him, leave Orson, far behind her. Very soon, they would be nothing at all.

And his life would be nothing. This station would be obliterated and sprayed in a thousand tiny pieces across the galaxy. Some of those pieces would be him. His ever-graying hair. His too-soft uniforms that seemed out of place in the empire. His lover, with his scared eyes but still-soft smile.

He pressed a kiss to Orson’s head, knowing that the moment could come with no warning and they would vanish none the wiser. He couldn’t tell Orson that, he had endured so much already. Even now, when Galen gripped his waist a little too hard, he felt his whole body tense with the expectation of undeserved punishment. Almost a year, they had spent in adjoining prison cells, Orson bloodied and beaten each time Galen made a slight flaw, each time that he dared to try and speak, each time Tarkin felt like he deserved it. It had scared him, underneath the soft skin, underneath the now-gentle fingers that had once caused Galen so much pain. Now, they did the same, but only the way they grasped his shirt in lingering terror at night when he was sleeping, or when the door would open unexpectedly when a member of the staff would bring them lunch.

Tarkin had been true to his word. They had been let largely alone after the death of Saw Guerra, the atmospheric-level explosion that had destroyed the last remnants of the Jedi, the kyber that Galen had so dedicated his life to. He had received praise. He had received notoriety, albeit under the table. He had received Orson: broken, battered, screaming in his sleep. It had taken days of gentle touches and a soothing voice and reassurance that he wouldn’t be taken again. That Galen was safe. That Jyn, who had changed so much in the year he had seen her, and wore the uniform of a soldier, wasn’t there to hurt him. It had taken tears, and sweat, and the very edge of his mental strength. But they had made it this far. Leaps and bounds. But even if they had crawled miles out of Hell, that meant they were still only surfacing.

Orson breathed softly, as if the world was newly opening to him, and Galen looked down to see him undoing the top buttons of his uniform, fingers barely ghosting over skin. He breathed heavy,

Orson continued his path down Galen’s skin, his blue eyes almost seeming to marvel at him. Galen watched him, still saying nothing because nothing was only slightly better than lies. And slightly was better than none. Their intimacy had waned. Galen missed it, not the pleasure of it, not the obvious parts. It was comfort he understand, satisfaction he knew how to give. It was familiar. And it had been missing for so long, he had almost forgotten.

“”Galen.” He felt shy fingers push his shirt back. “Will you kiss me?”

“Are you sure?” It was a painful question, one that slipped past his lips without truly meaning for it too. Familiar blue eyes looked up at him, some of their familiar spark returned. Orson said nothing, but pressed his lips to Galen’s, shaking the slightest amount, breathing too heavily for it really to amount to much of a kiss. But for Galen, that moment was everything.

And Orson laughed a bit, at himself maybe, or at this all. A loud, almost painful sound. But it brought a tear to his eye, burning and almost happy. Maybe he was laughing that this is what remained of what had been their life, now smashed into pieces. Or perhaps, just at the fact that he was so unsure of kissing someone after having done so so expertly for so long.

And then his lips came again. And again and again, finally finding their footing against Galen’s as gentle, but unsure fingers finished their job from earlier and a familiar weight bore Galen down into the cushions, and for a few moments, he is happy and lost in the part of his brain that isn’t filled wholly with darkness.

 

 

He hears the alarms, they come at night when Orson is pressed to his chest, breathing in peace after another few weeks of slow recovery. They jar him from the almost passive state of sleep he had found himself in, not so far gone that he was groggy, not so awake that it did not feel like a dream. Orson stirs, but he goads him back to sleep with a gentle kiss and long fingers running through his gray hair.

He hears the stampede of officers running for the doors, no one to check on them when they have all stopped caring about their existence after Jedha was buried. He lets his mind drift, content to stay in bed as the roar of the gates opening to send out the fighters sounds beside the incessant whirring that he had always seen as unnecessary. Bad news travels like water through the station, this would be no different.

He smiles in melancholy triumph: soon, Tarkin will realize his failure. That the only rewards reaped from pain and betrayal and suffering are more of the same. It isn’t a happy feeling: he had to assume that his Jyn, his Stardust, is gone. What happened on Scarif is no secret. Like Lyra. Like the man Orson used to be before they tried so hard to break him. It is not happy. But it is something.

Orson burrows farther into his side, trying to shield himself from the noise and the cold. Orson has never been able to be warm enough, and Galen runs a hand over his back, feeling all the scars there he has traced with his lips and his fingers until they seem to be a very private puzzle as a part of his mind as the numbers and facts and figures that originally designed the quarters they have called home for so long.

He can feel the station being rocked with their attempts to penetrate the shield. It will not work. For a moment, there is a glimmer of fear that they have not listened to his plans. But then his commlink buzzes, an emergency page from Tarkin for him to report to the command center.

Orson lifts his head, blinking soft blue eyes. “Go to sleep, my love.” He says gently, and Orson gives him a small smile. He remembers the first time he had had described Orson Krennic’s eyes as soft, when he had come to him after giving up everything. He lifts a thumb to the corner of his eyes, pressing against the soft lines that have formed there: not as many as their could be. Not enough laughter in a lifetime of sadness.

He feels a soft kiss on his shoulder as his lover comes around him like a blanket. He closes his eyes, almost manages to leave that place safely inside his mind: his daughter, his wife, his Orson in tow.

But then he feels the first inkling of unbearable heat as the reactor defaults on itself. As his flaw, both fatal and perfect in its creation, begins to destroy his life’s work. And he realizes that it doesn’t matter how much they have all changed, how different a man he might be for it, as the world goes from darkness, surrounded by the only person he can still love, and then, in a flash, it is nothing at all.


End file.
